Shelter From the Storm
by Brighid45
Summary: Third story in the Treatment series. It's House's first Christmas after leaving Mayfield. Has he been naughty or nice, and what's in store for the New Year? AU to S6 canon storyline. Angst, humor and a bit of fluff along the way. Please R&R, thanks!
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N: I don't own or make money writing about House. This is the sequel to Thursday's Child and by extension, Treatment. The first chapter is a bit short, but things will pick up as we go along. This is a Christmas-themed story as you will see. Hope you enjoy it and please review, it would really make my day! --Brig)**

_November 6__th_

_9 p.m._

"You did _WHAT_?!" Sarah stared at Gene in shock. He did his best not to flinch. He'd known this was coming from the start.

"We gave House an ultimatum," he said again. "Either he works with you or the deal's off."

Sarah said nothing. She folded her arms, her green eyes glittering. Gene recognized the warning signs of rising temper and prepared for battle.

"Let me get this straight," Sarah said. "You and Will had a meeting with House—which you didn't ask me to attend, even though I'm supposedly part of the team—and then tried to force him into a protocol no one told me about?"

"You make it sound a lot worse than it is," Gene said. Sarah's eyes narrowed. _Here it comes_, Gene thought, and braced himself.

"It sounds like exactly what it is!" she snapped. "It's coercion! About the _worst_ thing you could do to someone who is already resistant to therapy!" She was practically shooting sparks out of the top of her head. "How dare you connive behind my back like this, Gene!"

"We had to do something," he said, trying hard not to sound defensive. "Besides, he sabotaged the process—"

"Oh, we are _so_ not going there!" Sarah said. There was a warning note in her voice now, along with the anger. "I do NOT need you to defend me! And don't give me some line about sabotage," she said when he opened his mouth to reply. "At least do me the courtesy of being honest! This is about you taking care of your woman, isn't it?"

"What's so wrong with that?" Gene said. He was getting angry now too.

"The last thing I need is an ex-jarhead running interference for me," she said, her voice rising in volume. "House did what he felt he needed to do. He is not a typical patient--"

"He got you fired!" Gene fought to keep from shouting back. "How am I supposed to let that go?"

"It isn't up to you to 'let things go'! What happened is between him and me!"

"He deliberately _hurt_ you," Gene said, hanging onto the last shreds of his composure. "You want me to stand by and let him get away with it. Don't ask me to do that, Sarah."

She glared at him. "Michael Eugene Goldman," she said, her voice dangerously quiet now, "we have talked about this before. I do not need nor want you to protect me. What you and Will did was wrong."

"Fine! It was wrong!" He heard the snarl in his voice that meant his own temper had given way. At the moment he really didn't care. "I wasn't raised to let the people I love get hurt without me doing something about it! You know that! You've always known it, dammit!"

"There is an enormous difference between dealing with personal stuff and going after a patient for acting out!" Sarah said. She was pale now, her fingers digging into her arms. "I refuse to be a part of this—this _edict _you two handed down!"

"What do you mean?" Gene felt his chest tighten with dread.

"I'm going to tell House the truth."

"He'll refuse to work with you," Gene said. "You know he will!"

"It has to be his choice. Force never works. NEVER." Sarah turned away. "I'm really angry right now, so I'm not saying anything more."

"Go right ahead and be as pissed off as you want," Gene growled. "That makes two of us."

Without another word Sarah took a pillow off the bed and stalked out of the room. Gene watched her go. She would sleep on the couch tonight, it was always her habit when they'd had a bad fight. He knew why she did it; she needed time alone to cool down and think about things. _Fine by me_, he thought, and hated the fury he was feeling toward both her and House. He resisted the urge to slam the door after her and headed for the bathroom, aware he was in for a long night of tossing and turning and 'what if' sessions in the early hours. _Damn you, House_, he thought, and wondered how much icy silence he could endure before he apologized for doing something he knew wasn't wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**(A/N: I do not make money from writing House fic, nor do I own the character of Gregory House. The lyrics to 'Shelter From the Storm' were written by B. Zimmerman, who also owns the rights. I know the song is about love, but it's also about the ability to give and receive compassion. If you read the words and apply them to Greg and Sarah's relationship--that of patient and analyst--you get a different interpretation. Enjoy --B) **

**_I was in another lifetime, one of toil and blood,_**

**_when blackness was a virtue, and the road was full of mud._**

**_I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form;_**

**"_Come in," she said, "I'll give you_**

**_shelter from the storm."_**

_November 11__th_

_10 a.m._

Greg sips his cooling coffee and looks out the window. It is a day typical of late autumn in this area. Most of the leaves have fallen, though a few trees have held out against the coming cold and are doing their best not to turn—the definition of 'losing battle' if there ever was one. The grass is still green too, contrasting oddly with the bare vegetation. Weak, watery sunshine illuminates everything in an unflattering light, lending the surroundings a shabbiness that is utterly depressing.

He is waiting for Sarah to arrive. She surprised him by agreeing to meet at Wilson's place, despite the vast inconvenience to her; they could just as easily have talked on the phone. There was no objection, no argument; she'd simply said yes. Now he's wondering what her motive is in doing so. Will she use this meeting to berate or guilt-trip him? Will she flip out, break down, carry on? He doesn't think so. She was too matter of fact on the phone, indicating she already has some sort of plan in mind. _She's going to bargain,_ he thinks even as a knock sounds at the door. He limps across the room to answer it, taking his time.

Sarah stands in the hallway, bundled into a shabby black parka. She looks cold and tired, with faint shadows under her eyes. He waits for her to say something, but she is silent.

"I already gave to the Widows and Orphans Fund," he says. "Unless you're the hooker I paid for yesterday. If so, I'm letting you know you're late." He pretends to wince. "Oops, bad choice of words."

She says nothing, just looks at the floor. After a moment he steps aside and opens the door wider, a tacit invitation to enter.

A few minutes later they are sitting at the dining room table across from each other. He hasn't offered her coffee or even a glass of water, but she hasn't asked for anything either.

"What do you want?" he asks, watching her. She is sitting much as he found her last week, leaning forward with her arms on the table, hands folded. She lifts her gaze to his. He can't read her expression.

"I didn't have anything to do with the ultimatum Gene and Will gave you," she says.

"Riiiight," he says, injecting as much sarcasm into the word as possible. "Does your hubby know you're here?" He answers before she can reply. "Of course he does. I give you both credit, this is a good ploy. It would work with most patients. But not me." He sits back and offers a smirk. "What else ya got?"

"It's not a ploy," she says quietly. "I want to make my own offer."

"Oh, this will be good," he says, just to goad her. She ignores his comment.

"I would like to work with you, if you're agreeable," she says. "It's still my opinion that your best chance for a successful surgery and future pain management would be with continuing therapy. I can help you with that chance."

"Why?" he asks. "Why would you want to work with me after--" he pauses--"you know, everything?"

She lifts her gaze to his. "Because I want to. That's reason enough."

"You are so full of shit," he says, incredulous. "I got you _fired!"_

"Nobody said there wouldn't be a few little bumps in the road." For the first time the corners of her mouth turn up just a bit, a faint amusement reflected in her eyes. Caught off guard, Greg can't help but give a snort of laughter. The next thing he knows they're both cracking up_._ It is totally insane, but in that same crazy way it feels good. Something deep within him relaxes a little. Not that he feels guilty about what happened; he just wishes there hadn't been unexpected consequences from that little prank he pulled.

"What about Gene and Will?" he asks after they wind down into occasional chuckles. "They'll want evidence of results."

"Therapy doesn't work that way," she says. "It isn't a matter of putting in _x_ and getting _y _after thirty days, or sixty, or an entire year. It's an ongoing process." She looks at her hands. "I just want to help."

"_Why?_" He asks again. Her persistence mystifies him. She no longer has to answer to anyone for his progress, so there's no reward in it for her.

"Because you deserve the chance," she says.

"No I don't," he says, surprised to find he's being honest. "You're delusional."

"I'm stubborn," she says, smiling a little. "There's a difference, you know."

"Not by much," he says. He cannot shake this feeling of release, of what feels like hope—a dangerous state of mind. "I think you just like lost causes. Typical do-gooder."

She stands and takes her coat from the back of the chair. "Let me know what you decide," she says. "Call me any time."

"What about your husband?" he says. "I got threatened with a beatdown if I make his little wifey all verklempt."

"You let me worry about that," she says. "My door is always open." And with that she is gone, letting herself out of the apartment as quietly as she came in.

After a while Greg rises and takes his coffee cup to the sink, dumps out the cold liquid, and limps into the living room. He sits down on the couch, then stretches out, pulls the cotton throw from the back and drapes it over him. It smells of Bounce and overheated fibers. He grabs the remote, turns on the tv and rolls over, facing away from the screen; it's just on for noise, some kind of company in the quiet apartment.

At the moment he's overwhelmed and not sure what to do, sensations he's all too familiar with and dislikes intensely. Part of him wants to dismiss Sarah as a self-serving hypocrite; part of him knows she's sincere, which is the equivalent of saying all UFO abductees are sincere because they really believe they've been taken into the mothership. _Doesn't mean anything,_ he thinks as sleep starts to pull him down. But even as the thought occurs, he knows he'll accept her offer. As much as he can't stand knowing it, she's right. He needs her help.


	3. Chapter 3

_December 20__th_

Sarah wrapped the muffler around her neck and glanced once more out the kitchen window. It was still snowing, thick curtains of small flakes that showed no sign of letting up any time soon.

"The driveway isn't getting cleared with me standing here," she said aloud. "Cheap therapy, Corbett. Get busy. You can come back in any time you want."

_That's if you aren't buried ten feet deep by the time you get to the bottom of the drive, _a little voice deep inside said_. _

"Oh, shut up," she muttered, and opened the door.

It was every bit as nasty as she'd expected. She flung shovelsful across the yard, moving step by step down the drive, shivering as flakes clung to her eyelashes and melted against her skin. From somewhere further along the street she heard children playing, their shouts muffled by the snowfall. It sounded like they were having a great time.

_How do you have fun in this cold? _She leaned on the shovel to catch her breath. _Holy crow, that sounds so pathetic. Maybe if you grow up in a house with heat and hot water, things are different . . . and that sounds even __more__ pathetic. Stop whining and get back to work._

An hour later one side was more or less cleared and she was so cold she couldn't feel her hands or feet any more. Her teeth chattered as she propped the shovel by the door and went inside. _I'll come in and get warmed up, then go back out and do the other half,_ she told herself. The thought made her sick, but she pushed the fear away and began to shuck off gear, leaving her snow-crusted boots on the big mat in the mudroom. She tried to hurry because she had to pee. Cold always did that to her, which was maddening when you had a bladder the size of a dime anyway. A vivid memory flashed into her mind's eye--sitting on the stoop with tears freezing on her eyelashes, fighting the overwhelming need to urinate, waiting for her grandmother to come home from work and let her in.

_You are throwing one major pity party for yourself today,_ she thought as she peeled off her gloves and insulators. _Knock it off._

She was about to remove her coat when the phone rang. Sarah hurried into the kitchen and checked the caller ID. She stared at it in shock as the fifth ring sounded and Gene's cheerful voice filled the silent kitchen.

"Please leave a message, thanks and Merry Christmas!" The beep sounded.

"I _hate_ voicemail. Sarah, pick up! I know you're there. Where the hell else would you be, with no job?"

Without thinking she reached out and took the receiver. "H-H-House?"

There was a short silence. "Why are you stuttering?"

"J-just came in from shoveling the d-driveway," she said, and winced at the inanity of her reply. She shrugged off her coat and shivered.

"How long were you outside?" House sounded annoyed.

"I don't know—an hour, I g-guess," she said, glancing at the clock.

"You're in the first stages of hypothermia, you moron!" he shouted. She jumped.

"Don't yell at m-me!" she snapped. Without warning tears filled her eyes. She wiped them away with cold fingers. "I'm—I'm all right. Just a little ch-chilled."

"Get the comforter off your bed and wrap up in it." House's voice grew gentler. "Just do it."

"I—I h-have to pee first," she said, and sniffled. House exhaled slowly.

"Jesus_._ _Fine_. Pee first, _then _get the comforter. Okay?"

Once she was bundled in a thick quilt and curled up on the couch she dared to ask, "Why are you calling me?"

"My super-duper extra-special sixth sense told me you were in danger," House said.

"Come on," Sarah said. "What do you want?"

"I . . ." He stopped, went on. "I want to know if your offer still stands." He sounded odd—diffident. 

_No, that's not it—he's embarrassed_, Sarah thought. "What happened?" she asked quietly. There was a long silence.

"Wilson didn't tell you," he said finally.

"Obviously not, or I wouldn't have asked," she said, and knew what he was about to say. "You had a relapse."

"I fucked up." There was a bitter edge to his words now.

"What happened?" she asked again.

"What the hell do you think?"

"I think you panicked," she said. Another long silence.

"I didn't panic," he said.

"So what caused the relapse?"

He made an impatient sound. "What difference does it make?"

"I need to know," she said, and kept her voice calm. "Either you tell me or I hang up."

"Idle threat," House said. "You won't—"

Sarah hung up. The phone rang again thirty seconds later. She answered.

"Will you tell me what happened?"

"See, this is why I hate shrinks," House said. "You're all yentas by profession."

"Greg," Sarah said. "Tell me. I won't ask again."

"It's not important," House said. Sarah waited. "Why do you really want to know? You've finally realized the blackmail potential of—"

She clicked off the phone. When it rang again, she let it go to voicemail. It rang once more after about fifteen minutes. She didn't even bother to check the caller ID before answering. "Hey, Jim."

"He really does need you," Jim said. He sounded resigned. For a moment Sarah knew a little sympathy for him, but set the feeling aside. Jim was well aware of his obsessive-compulsive need to fix people and the havoc it wreaked in his personal life.

"He says he relapsed," she said. "He won't tell me more than that."

"He found a stash of Vicodin at his old place," Jim said. "He took four and ended up in the ER getting his stomach pumped. It was his choice."

"Was it really?" Sarah asked. "Or did you guilt-trip him into doing it?"

"I wasn't there, how could I possibly influence him?" Jim said, clearly exasperated.

"I had to ask," Sarah said. "If House feels like his back is to the wall, he'll continue to fight dirty."

"You're surprised after the way your husband treated him?" Jim asked with some sarcasm. "He and House almost went mano a mano right there in the diner."

Sarah closed her eyes. "That's an exaggeration and you know it. Gene was only trying to protect me," she said. "As misguided as his actions were, they're understandable. But understanding his motives doesn't mean I condone them. That's why I offered to work with House on my own terms."

"He sees it as blackmail," Jim said.

"It _isn't_ blackmail, dammit!" Sarah suppressed a wild surge of frustration. "It's his best chance to make sure surgery and pain management work, but it isn't the only option! And he knows it! It's him trying to gain control of the process as a measure of resistance, pure and simple." She took a breath and gathered her tattered composure. "Jim, I love you dearly and I know you're trying to help, but this discussion is over. Either House agrees to work with me or he doesn't, it's completely up to him. I'm putting the choice back in his hands. I wish I could say I didn't care either way . . ." Tears filled her eyes. She grabbed a tissue and swiped at them, hating her weakness.

"You're crying, aren't you?" Jim said, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Sare. I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't," she said, wiping her nose. "I've been emotionally labile lately."

He chuckled, as she knew he would. "Labile," he said. "Always sounds like a dirty word." He was quiet for a moment. "How's it going with the job search?"

"I haven't been looking," she said.

"You can't get discouraged. You're a good psychoanalyst. There are plenty of people who would benefit from your skill and experience."

"I'm taking time to think about what I want to do next." Sarah tried to make her tone decisive. Instead she sounded tentative.

"You're afraid you've failed," Jim said gently. "You always were a perfectionist."

"Jim, I've been working full time since I was fourteen. Taking a few months off isn't a crime." She crumpled the tissue in her hand. "It's kinda nice being a housewife."

"Now who's resisting?" Jim said.

"Shut up," she said, smiling a little. "That's a rotten trick, turning my own words against me."

Jim laughed. "Look up 'resistance' in the dictionary and there's your picture."

"Not true!" She sat up. "Stop trying to make me feel better, I still have half a driveway to shovel."

"That's the price you pay for unemployment," Jim said. He was smiling, she could hear it in his voice. "All right. I'll let House know what you said and he can take it from there, okay?"

"Okay," she said. "You're a good friend, Jim. I don't think enough people tell you that."

"You just did. Make sure you wear your thermals when you go back out. I don't want to hear about you on the evening news. You know, 'New York housewife popsicle discovered in snowdrift, details at eleven'."

Sarah laughed. "Love you too," she said.

Fifteen minutes later she was ready to take on the rest of the driveway. It was still snowing, flakes swirling past the window. She tugged her stocking cap over her ears and grasped the doorknob. _Finish this and you can have a hot shower and a cup of cocoa with Bailey's,_ she told herself, and went out into the storm, determined to complete her work.


	4. Chapter 4

**(_A/N: I do not own House, nor do I make money from writing fic. The lyrics to 'Shelter From the Storm' are owned by B. Zimmerman, not me. --B)_**

_Not a word was spoke between us, _

_there was little risk involved;_

_everything up to that point had been left unresolved._

_Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm . . . _

"_Come in," she said, "I'll give you_

_shelter from the storm."_

_December 21st_

_10 p.m._

He's been struggling against the inevitable since his last phone call to Sarah yesterday morning. He has to accept the terms, he knows he does, but he keeps trying to find some way around them. And it isn't going to happen. He heard the finality in Sarah's voice. He's gone too far, though that wasn't his intent. He hadn't meant to get her fired; was it his fault the old farts at Mayfield couldn't appreciate a good prank when they saw one?

Wilson had tried to talk with him about the situation. They'd ended up in a brief but fairly nasty fight. Now his friend was off sulking and Greg had used every distraction he knew to keep from thinking about things but nothing was working, not even his music.

So at long last he picks up the phone, counts to ten, strips away the last ragged remnants of his pride and dubious manhood, and calls Sarah. Of course her husband answers. His voice is a lot less cheery than the voicemail message.

"Yeah_?"_

Greg resists the urge to give him a smartass comeback. "I'd like to talk with Sarah."

There is a brief silence. "Just a minute." Greg hears the phone being handed off, a terse exchange of words. _Ahah,_ he thinks. _Trouble in paradise. They've been fighting. Three guesses as to topic._

"What is it, Greg?" Sarah sounds calm, but he detects tension.

"I accept," he says.

"You understand what that means," she says after a moment.

"I'm not an idiot," he says, annoyed. His humiliation level is rising fast. "Yes, I understand. Sessions with you, then surgery."

"All I can offer is some help," Sarah says quietly. "There are no guarantees you'll be accepted as a candidate for surgery. It'll depend on how willing you are to work on your stuff."

"I can't promise that," he says.

"I don't need a promise. What I need is for you to do your best, and when you aren't able to do that, try anyway." She pauses. "Psychotherapy saved my life because I decided it was worth the effort. It could help you too."

"It all comes back to people wanting to fix me," he says bitterly. "You can say that isn't what you want to do, but it's a lie."

There is a long silence. "I'd like for you to learn how to get out of your own way," Sarah says at last. "That's all."

"What the hell does that mean?" He has a fair idea of what she's saying, but he wants to hear her explanation.

"You think you have only one true talent—an ability to solve complex puzzles. So you apply that ability to everything within your sphere of influence. It's become an obsession, this need to pick people and situations apart, and you use any means to do so—the more outrageous the better. As a consequence you destroy friendships and push away anyone who loves you because they're afraid of you, of what you might learn about them. You alienate coworkers and patients for the same reason. Because people tend to react to your behavior with anger or frustration, you've decided that you are unlovable and unlikeable, something you've been told in various ways since childhood anyway, so you might as well continue to provoke others into hating you immediately and prove your conclusions are right."

"We're back to that again," he says eventually.

"And we'll keep coming back to it until you decide it's something you need to deal with. So, do you still want to work with me?" There is a cool implacability in her words that worries him more than rage or fury. She will not be so easy to manipulate this time. Some part of him sees the immense challenge; a bit like climbing Everest without oxygen tanks. Still, the difficulty of the task makes victory all the sweeter.

"I don't have a choice," he says.

"Yes. You. Do." Sarah emphasizes each word. "You have thirty seconds before I hang up. After that your calls won't be answered or returned."

He waits until he hears her sigh before he says, "I accept your terms."

She is silent a long time. "All right."

He lets go a breath he wasn't aware of holding. A curious and unwelcome sense of relief steals through him.

"Where do I send the bill?" he says, and winces a little. He hadn't really meant to rub salt into that wound again. Not just yet, anyway.

"We'll worry about that later," Sarah says. "I'll be in touch in a day or two and get things set up."

Later on, as he is lying in bed listening to Wilson in the next room whispering to his dead girlfriend, Greg wonders if anything he does is really going to make a difference in his life. Removing the constant pain he's endured since the infarction has always been an unattainable goal; now that it's within reach, he's not sure it matters any more. But a part of him wants to try.

_You'll fail_, a little voice inside his head says. _You always do. _

"We'll worry about that later," he says aloud, and closes his eyes in a futile effort to capture some sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

_**(A/N: the next few chapters will be a bit lighter in tone, since that's the way my muses and I wanted them. This is our Christmas present to you, loyal readers. Settle in with some hot cocoa or a cup of eggnog, and enjoy! --B)**_

_I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail;_

_poisoned in the bushes, and blown out on the trail,_

_hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn;_

"_Come in," she said, "I'll give you_

_shelter from the storm."_

_December 23__rd_

_7 p.m._

"This is a stupid idea," Greg says. He peers out the window, catching glimpses of snowdrifts along the road, bright against the black night.

"You keep saying that like it just occurred to you," Wilson says. "It's a little late to back out now." He peers at the GPS map. "Weren't we supposed to turn right at that old house?"

"Another mile," Greg says. He's not pulling a fast one; he doesn't want to get stuck in the middle of nowhere with a hundred feet of snow predicted for upstate New York in the next twenty-four hours. "Tell me again why we're spending the weekend in North Bumfuck? We could be at your place, ordering Indian and watching classic porn. I just bought a pristine copy of 'Debbie Does Dallas' off Ebay."

"Oh, I don't know," Wilson says. "Sarah mentioned some obscure festival called Christmas. I have my suspicions that she and Gene would like to include us in some holiday celebrations, god knows why. I never figured them for Flagellants, myself."

"An observant Jew like you, ignoring Hanukkah," Greg says. "I'm shocked. What would your mother say?"

"She'd ask me for my recipe for pork tenderloin," Wilson says. "I hate these damn back roads. Isn't that turn coming up yet?"

Fifteen minutes later they pull into the driveway, a long, winding lane leading to the house. Snow is piled high on either side. Greg wonders where they'll put anything that falls between now and the end of the week. _And they want to retire here. If that isn't grounds for insanity I don't know what is. _

At last they reach the house. There are small lamps in each window, their mellow light shining out onto the snow, and a wreath of real greens and pine cones hangs on the door. It looks like home, somehow. Not that he ever lived anyplace like this. Military housing was usually the very definition of utilitarian.

Wilson parks the car, turns off the lights and sets the brake. "Before we go in, I have something to say to you."

"Oh goody," Greg mutters.

"Sarah is the best at what she does. Give her a chance." Wilson removes the key from the ignition and flips up the collar of his coat.

"That's it? No big lecture, no scolding, no warnings about bad behavior?" Greg peers at the other man. "You're not the real James, you're a pod person. Admit it."

"You take the bag with the presents, I'll grab the cases." Wilson pops the door and is gone. Greg doesn't follow him. Apprehension has replaced mockery. Now that they've arrived, he doesn't want to do this.

He sits in the cold darkness and thinks about his situation. He is tired in so many ways he's lost count; tired of the constant pain, the boredom and inescapable monotony of his days without work to keep him busy and numb. He is also sick of living with himself. The same thoughts run in his mind all the time, driving him to despair more often than anyone knows. He loathes his misery and anger, but they are constant companions; the more he tries to outrun or ignore them, the more persistent and clamorous they become.

And now it's Christmas, the one time of year he truly detests. The holidays already hold quite a few less-than-stellar memories. Adding to their number won't help matters. And on top of all that, he's pretty sure that sometime during this weekend, Gene will attempt to beat him senseless. But he is here now, and he agreed to work with Sarah. There is nothing for it but to go inside.

He expects to find a big tree loaded with ornaments in the living room and every surface crammed with decorations. Instead the interior looks much as it did in October, with the exception of the lamps in the windows and some evergreen boughs on the mantelpiece. There's more wood stacked by the hearth though, and a nice fire going. The tantalizing smell of newly baked bread hangs in the air, along with the sweet tang of wood smoke and fresh pine.

Sarah is waiting for them. She is wearing the cable-knit teal sweater he remembers from that last day in her redecorated office, paired with jeans and thick sheepskin slippers. Her curly hair is free of bindings for once; she's let it grow out a little so that it reaches just past her shoulders. She looks thinner, the bones of her face more sharply defined, but she seems genuinely happy. She hugs Jim and smiles warmly at Greg but doesn't touch him—a consideration he is glad she still observes.

"It's such a long drive from Princeton in cold weather. You both must be frozen," she is saying. "We can put things away later. How about some sandwiches and soup? I just took a loaf from the oven."

The kitchen is warm and fragrant. A pot of vegetable soup simmers on the stove and a loaf of bread sits on a cutting board, along with an array of sandwich ingredients. Greg makes roast beef layered thick with mustard and horseradish, with a cup of hot soup on the side. Soon he and Wilson are stowing away large quantities of delicious food.

Greg watches his friend as he chats with Sarah. She is sipping tea, her hands clasping the mug—keeping them warm, he realizes. There is a subtle change in Wilson when he talks with Sarah, an openness he rarely shows anyone else. It's easy to see now they were once lovers; they are affectionate without crossing the line into intimacy. Greg envies them. He thinks of Cuddy, of the pain and sadness in her eyes when she left him after her hospital visit, then pushes the memory away.

"Where's your husband?" he asks Sarah after finishing the last of his sandwich. He is full now and getting sleepy, the long day catching up with him at last. He rubs his thigh, trying to smooth away the deep ache that's always there.

"He had a consult in Kansas, so he's spending a day with his family before he comes home." Sarah collects the soup bowls. "He should be here by late morning tomorrow, just ahead of the next storm." She glances at him. "Do you need something for pain?" It is a quiet question, no implied judgments involved, only concern.

"I'm fine. You and Goldman made up yet?" He knows he should leave it alone, but that's not what he does.

"We're working on it." She smiles at him as she takes the bowls to the sink. "When both parties are recalcitrant it takes time, but we'll reach rapprochement eventually."

"Five dollar words," Greg says. "Things must really be bad."

"Nope." Sarah puts the bowls to soak. "Neither of us has thrown anything. Yet. I thought you'd like to stay in the same room as before."

He blinks. The mental image of Gene and Sarah hurling crockery at each other fills his mind's eye. "Uh—okay."

"Jim, you're upstairs and down the hall," she says, stacking plates now. "Not the drafty room, the other one. It's a little smaller but more comfortable."

"That's convenient," Greg says. Wilson gives him a warning look which he ignores.

"If Jim was shtupping me it would be," Sarah says calmly. "Sleep in as long as you like tomorrow. I brought the guitars up with me, they're on the couch in the living room. I'm going to sit up and play for a while. If anyone wants to join me they're more than welcome."

"She means you," Wilson says in a dry tone. "Since I'm spectacularly untalented in regard to making music, I'm headed for bed." He gets up from the table and carries his glass to the sink, leans in and kisses Sarah's cheek. "Thanks," he says. "'night," and takes himself off upstairs.

When Greg eventually goes to his own bed, it is to find a fire warming the room and the bedclothes turned down in invitation. The stack of books on the nightstand is all non-fiction, a couple of biographies but mostly science subjects; climate change, animal behavior, even meteorology. He smiles a little at the sight of a title on tornadoes and storm chasing and pegs it as first choice if he needs a distraction. A tin of cookies sits atop the books, while beside them is a carafe of water. The Martin six-string waits in the chair by the fire, gleaming in its case.

But the real surprise comes when he limps his way across the house to wash up and brush his teeth. He finds the bathroom has been renovated, with a walk-in shower that not only has rails but a seat. There's also a heater built into the wall by the sink, and an extra chair. It's still a small room, but perfectly comfortable for someone with a disability.

He stands in the doorway, overnight bag in hand, and knows all this was done for him. It is an astonishing act of generosity, one he does not in any way deserve, and yet here it is. He cannot fathom why they did this, but he is grateful. Navigating the high sides of bathtubs or shower stalls has always been difficult and worrisome, though he's managed to avoid injury to this point. Cold rooms make his leg pain worse as well. Now he doesn't have to worry about either here.

After he has showered and put on the new bathrobe hanging from a hook on the back of the door, after he has gone back to his room and settled into his warm, comfortable bed for the night, he hears music coming from the living room. He lies in the darkness and listens to Sarah play softly. He can't make out the song, but it's a ballad of some kind, gentle and a little sad, peaceful. Bit by bit he drifts off, the calm notes and chords stealing him away. Try as he might he cannot fight the knowledge he is welcome here. It's a good feeling. He savors it as sleep carries him off into the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

_**(A/N: this chapter got split up due to size, so another section will follow fairly quickly. I know all about baking and icing gingerbread men and gingerbread houses as well, my mom and I used to make quite a few every year at Christmas as a fundraiser for our church. There's nothing like decorating dozens of cookies with good music playing on the radio! Hope everyone is having a wonderful Christmas Eve. --B)**_

_December 24__th_

_9 a.m._

Greg wakes to the sound of voices. He stretches and yawns, glances at his travel clock, and pushes aside the bedclothes. Slowly he pulls on a pair of jeans and some thick socks, grabs a sweater from his overnight bag and yanks it over his head, stuffing his arms into the sleeves as he limps to the door and goes out into the living room.

As he draws closer to the kitchen he realizes he's hearing Sarah and Wilson arguing about something. The spicy-sweet smell of gingerbread fills the air. Even after last night's ample dinner his belly rumbles as the fragrance grows stronger, molasses and cloves and cinnamon making an irresistible trail to follow.

"I'm just asking you to decorate some cookies for me," Sarah is saying when Greg reaches the doorway. He stands hidden in the shadows, watching the two of them.

"Some?" Wilson stares at the tabletop covered with dozens of gingerbread men. "There's a whole civilization here!"

"You don't have to do them all. Whatever you can manage would be a big help," Sarah says. "They're for the get-together tonight after the Vespers service at the church." She wipes a strand of hair from her temple. "The kids will be looking forward to these cookies. I've made them for the last five years. If I don't get them finished in time . . . " Her voice trails off.

"And she resorts at last to emotional blackmail. Nice." Wilson gives Sarah a stern look, though his dark eyes are gleaming. "This is why you really invited us up here, isn't it? To be your kitchen lackeys."

"Damn, my clever plot's been discovered." Sarah gives him a saucy grin. "Come on, you know you love this kind of stuff."

"Just because I like to eat the icing doesn't mean I want to decorate a bazillion of these things!"

Greg steps into the doorway, amused by their bickering. "What's in it for me if I help out?"

Sarah glances at him, a smile replacing surprise. "Good morning. Do you want some breakfast first?"

"I want cookies," he says. "A dozen for me, a dozen for the whiner."

"Yeah," Wilson chimes in. "What he said."

"No way," Sarah says, leaning against the counter with arms folded. There is a splotch of flour on her forehead and her apron has a long drip of molasses down the front. "One dozen, period. You can split them."

"Uh uh. I want a whole twelve to myself," Greg says. "Take it or leave it." He looks at the clock on the wall. "Tick, tick, tick, tick . . . cookies not getting done, party getting closer . . . closer . . . clooooser . . . " He drops his voice to a whisper. "Tick, tick, tick, tick . . ."

"Think of the _children_," Wilson says in a tone thick with false tears.

"Oh, all right! A dozen each, you greedy hogs," Sarah says, mock-glaring at them both. "There are extra aprons in the drawer. I'll fill some icing bags."

Soon enough they are settled at the kitchen table, absorbed in their task. Music plays in the background. Greg had expected the usual assortment of saccharine Christmas carols, but instead it's vintage Bruce Springsteen. Somehow it suits the task at hand; no amped-up fake holiday cheer, just good tunes. he feels that little knot deep inside relax a bit. So, despite the cookies she's not a Christmas fanatic. Maybe this weekend won't be a total fiasco.

He takes his time with the first cookie. Eventually Wilson makes a comment, as Greg was hoping he would.

"Um, the whole point of helping is to get as many of these damn things done as possible," he says. "You've been working on that one for ten minutes now."

"You can't rush genius," Greg says. Sarah gives him a suspicious look.

"Let me see that cookie," she says in a total 'mom' tone. Greg hides it with his other hand. "What did you do to that innocent little gingerbread man?"

Wilson takes a peek at it. "It's anatomically correct," he announces. Greg glares at him.

"Tattletale," he says. "Bet you had a wedgie rash in school."

Sarah covers her eyes with her hand for a moment. "This was a mistake," she says, but Greg can tell she is trying hard not to laugh. "Forget it. Just leave them."

"But I _want_ to help," Greg says, enjoying himself. "Anyway, you said they were gingerbread men. Men have penises and testicles. Unless they're Wilson and use a strap-on."

"A leather-covered steel strap-on," Wilson says, unperturbed. "At least I know how to decorate the right way."

"Suck-up," Greg says in an accusatory tone. "You think the baker will slather you with molasses and lick you like a Sugar Daddy if you do what she wants."

Sarah holds up a cookie. "I hate to interrupt this cozy little Penthouse forum discussion, but if you would make them look like this, please? Little jacket with buttons, nice smile, no genitalia?"

Greg studies the pattern. "Fine. If you want mediocrity that's what you'll get."

"What I want is for the little girls in the village to _not_ find out from my gingerbread cookies that men dress to the right or left," Sarah says. "I'll be banned for life."

"How about this instead?" Wilson shows off his creation, a woman with large round breasts and a filled-in triangle at the top of her legs. Greg takes one look at it and snickers.

"She's got boobies and a cootch," he points out. Wilson takes a bite of the cookie, making sure to include a breast.

"Mmm . . . boobies," he says around the mouthful of gingerbread.

"Oh my god," Sarah groans, laughing. "Twenty dozen cookies to ice and I get the poster boys for arrested development as helpers. There is no justice in this world."

Eventually they settle into decorating in the G-rated style Sarah wants. It's more fun than Greg ever thought such a lame, mundane chore would be. The three of them laugh and tease back and forth as the music plays. At some point a pot of coffee is brewed, and Greg discovers gingerbread makes a good dunk. He's a little disappointed when the task is done, though he would never admit it.

"Want to go with me into town?" Sarah asks when the cookies are neatly packed away in big tubs. "I'm dropping these off at the church. We can stop on the way and pick out our tree."

Greg's heart sinks. So they're still stuck with the one ritual he hates the most besides exchanging gifts.

"I'll pass," Wilson says, untying his apron. "You two go, I'll make some lunch."

Sarah looks at Greg. She is as excited as a little kid, her eyes sparkling. "Come with me," she says. "I could use the company. Anyway, it's the perfect day to take Earl's sleigh. He said we could borrow it any time we like."

"Sleigh?" He can't believe what he just heard. "As in 'one-horse open'?"

"You'll see," she says. "Bundle up. Make sure you wear a hat that covers your ears."

Half an hour later he indeed finds a sleigh waiting by the step, complete with two four-legged equines in a jingle-bell harness. The cookies are stowed away behind the front seats, along with two containers he hasn't seen before.

"You have got to be kidding me," he says, incredulous. "This is beyond corny. Why can't we just take the car?"

"This is more fun," Sarah says. She climbs in. "Come on, it's gonna snow pretty soon. We'll take the back way into town, it's a little quicker than the main road."

"How do you know it's going to snow?" Greg asks as he clambers into the seat. "Let me guess—the trees are showing their silver."

"I watched the Weather Channel," she says, giving him that same saucy grin he saw her use earlier on Wilson. Greg can't help but laugh, and then suddenly they are on their way.

It is not at all what he expected. They move at a steady pace down the lane, bells jingling softly as snow crunches under the horses hooves. The world around them is white and silent, but not deserted; he sees a flash of scarlet as a male cardinal flits back and forth across their path, searching for food. Sparrows are out too, fluffy little spots of soft brown hopping around in the snow, and the occasional squirrel makes an appearance. It is peaceful, even relaxing. He sits back a bit, secretly enjoying the ride, watching Sarah out of the corner of his eye. She holds the reins with the ease of long practice, her expression relaxed and cheerful. _So she fears the cold but this doesn't bother her_, he thinks. _Interesting. _"When did you renovate the bathroom?" he says aloud.

"In November," she says. "We had hoped to get it done before you came out in October but the guy we hired was three deep in projects. How is it? Did the heater work all right? You were able to get in and out of the shower—"

"It's fine," he says. "Why did you have it done?"

"Because I wanted you to be comfortable," Sarah says without hesitation.

"You put a large chunk of money into making sure I can pee in a warm room," Greg says. "What do you want in return?"

"For you to feel at home," she says, and glances at him, smiling a little. "I hope you do."

He doesn't know what to say. After a few moments Sarah sits up and calls out a low 'whoa' to the team. They stop, shaking their heads and making soft whuffing noises as the harness bells jingle.

"I think we found our tree," she says. Greg looks around and sees bare deciduous hardwoods. The only thing remotely resembling an evergreen is a jack pine, bent and scrubby, eking out an existence on the edge of the woods.

"_That _thing?" He cannot imagine she really wants such a pathetic eyesore in her living room.

"Just the ticket," she says, and hands the reins to him. "Here, mind the horses." She hops out of the sleigh before he can protest, grabs two containers from the back seat and wades through the snow. He watches in growing bewilderment as she reaches the tree, sets the buckets down and removes the lids. From the first bucket she takes what look like small bell-shaped ornaments. After a moment Greg can see they are seed cakes, probably held together with tallow or suet. Sarah hangs them on the branches, going all around the tree until the lower branches are covered with the little cakes. When she can reach no higher she clears a few spots under and around the tree, then scatters seed and more chunks of suet on the bare ground. When she is finished the tree is laden with food for wild birds and animals. Sarah returns to the sleigh, her cheeks rosy.

"We'll come back in a day or two and do a refill," she says. "It'll all be gone by then." She settles into the seat, takes back the reins and makes a clicking sound with her tongue. Obviously the team knows what the noise means; they start down the lane once more, heads bobbing.

"So that's your Christmas tree," Greg says after a time.

"Sometimes we have a live pine at the house," Sarah says. "But it's more fun to do it this way."

He senses unpleasant history behind her simple statement, but since he's delighted they won't be subjected to untangling lights and unpacking ornaments, he won't pry. Not just yet, anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

_**(A/N: here's the end of chapter 6, cleverly disguised as chapter 7. Hope you like it. As always, I don't own House or make money from writing fic. I also don't own the lyrics to 'Shelter From the Storm'--they belong to B. Zimmerman. --B)**_

_Suddenly I turned around and she was standing there,_

_with silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair._

_She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns,_

"_Come in," she said, "I'll give you_

_shelter from the storm."_

_December 24th_

_1 p.m.  
_

They have successfully dropped off the cookies at the church and are on their way back to the house when Greg says "I'm that scraggly little pine, aren't I?"

Sarah looks at him but says nothing.

"Yeah, I get it now. That's exactly how you think of me." He cannot get the image of the tree out of his head. Humiliation fills him like poison. "Cover me with treats and make me useful, and no one will see the pathetic reality underneath."

"No," she says quietly.

"Come on, you know it's true." His stomach tightens.

"Years ago I was hiking in northern California," she says. "We stopped on a mountaintop, hardly anything growing there. There was this tree up near the summit. The strong winds had bent it down and sheared off half the branches over the years. But it still managed to survive. In fact it was thriving. It was a very powerful presence on that hillside." She falls silent a moment. "Everyone thinks growing tall and straight in the forest is the ideal situation, but quite a few of those trees have shallow roots. And they have to compete for resources and sunlight. That tree on the mountain was stronger and more resilient for all the hard weather it went through."

"Enough with the analogies," he growls at her.

"Hey, you're the one who started it," she says, unfazed by his bad mood.

"I think this is more about the lack of nurturing in your own life," he says. "You take care of other people because no one took care of you."

"Yes," she says, surprising him. "You're exactly right. I like to care for people and help them find healing. That's kinda why I became a psychologist. It lets me use my neuroses to good effect. I'd like to help you, if you'll allow it."

He snorts in an effort to hide his amusement at her reply but says nothing.

"Let me ask you this," Sarah says. "Is a drowning man being coddled if someone gives him a life preserver?"

"Mixing your metaphors. Now I'm drowning," he says softly.

"You know you are."

Those four words hit him like blows from a closed fist. He looks out over the frozen landscape and does his best to push away the pain.

"There is help here, if you want it," she says. "Use your senses and that truly magnificent brain of yours, and pay attention. That's all you have to do."

"How many sessions do I have to go through until you're satisfied nothing will get any better?" he snaps.

"Nope," she says. "No more sessions."

He turns to look at her. "Huh? Then why am I bothering with any of this nonsense?"

"You're here to let the baby Jesus shut your mouth and open your mind," she says, and flashes him a grin. "I get it now. Traditional hour-long point-counterpoint isn't gonna work with you."

"Jane, you ignorant slut," he says, because he can't resist it. Sarah laughs, and the sweet musical sound rings in the quiet lane like a silver bell. It makes his heart ache, but in a good way.

"Okay, I wasn't going to say anything until tomorrow, but I guess this is as good a time and place as any to give you your Christmas present." She brings the team to a halt and faces him. She's still smiling, but her sea-green gaze is serious. "Gene and I would like you to stay here while you're in therapy, and after the surgery through recovery."

He stares at her in utter astonishment, for once bereft of words.

"I'd stay here as well," she says, "We've been considering selling the house in town and making this our base of operations anyway."

"You—you're giving up your practice," he says. Shame touches him. He caused this.

"I'm just narrowing it down to one patient, for now anyway." She tilts her head a little. "Think about it. You don't have to give me an answer—"

"Yes," he says. It's reckless and stupid and he must be out of his mind to even agree to this, but he knows it's what he needs. Sarah nods her head.

"Okay," she says. "Good," and starts the team moving again.

"You sure your hubby is on board with the plan?" he asks after a time. "He and I aren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment."

"We talked about it last night," she says. "I wouldn't have made the offer if Gene didn't want this too." She falls silent a moment. "Things have a way of straightening themselves out. You'll see."

Nothing more is said for the rest of the ride home, but it isn't an uncomfortable silence. For some reason he feels more alive now than he has in a very long time. He considers her words over and over, trying to find some hidden meaning in them, some string attached, but there's none. It's a simple offer of assistance, made out of compassion and, dare he believe it, maybe even liking.

Later on, when he's lying on the couch in the living room, he lets his gaze wander around the room. He has lived many places in his life, some better than others. Never has he felt like anyplace was home, but here . . . maybe it could happen.

Wilson plops into the chair by the couch. He is wearing old sweats and a thick sweater, his dark hair a little ruffled from static electricity in the dry air.

"Doing okay?" he asks. "Need anything?"

Greg closes his eyes, his hands folded across his middle. "I'm good," he says, and for once it really is the truth.


	8. Chapter 8

_December 24__th_

_10:30 p.m._

Gene pulled the car into the garage and turned off the engine, then faced Sarah. It was the first chance they'd had to be alone together since his return earlier that afternoon.

"How was the service?" he asked. "Sorry I got in late. Everything was delayed, it's a mess from Texas to Omaha. I snagged the last flight out of Wichita."

"It was sweet. The wise men had new robes made for them by the quilting club, and the three year olds were a flock of sheep. Evan's mom made sheepskins for them to wear with little tails, they were adorable. You made a good Santa Claus, as usual," Sarah said, smiling. "Were you able to get the food donation to Pastor Hoffman?"

He nodded. "Loaded everything into the basement just in time. It's all set up to distribute right there in the kitchen. The kids at the supermarket helped me pack it. There's enough for everyone. Bill's doing the toys this year."

"The kids will have plenty of goodies, then," Sarah said, and stretched a little. "He always buys more than enough." She hesitated. "Before we go in, I just want to say I'm sorry." She put her hand over his. "I know you were trying to protect me. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Gene looked at her hand. "You're asking a lot when you want me to step down," he said quietly.

"I know," she said. "You're the only one who's ever offered to take things on for me. I don't always know how to handle it."

He leaned in and kissed her lips, warm and a little chapped from the cold air. "Okay," he said. She put her hand to his cheek.

"Okay," she said, smiling. "There's some leftover cookies. I saved them for you."

"Eeeexcellent," he said, and Sarah laughed softly.

An hour later Gene stood in front of the TV with cold beer in hand. The lamps in the windows glowed, adding their soft light to the flickering blaze from the fireplace.

"Lady and gentlemen," he said, "welcome to the seventh annual showing of our favorite Christmas movie. By popular demand, without further ado I give you . . ." Gene started the DVD with a flourish. "'Santa Claus Conquers the Martians'." He moved to the couch and dropped into a spot beside Sarah as she clapped and cheered.

"Good grief," Wilson groaned. "That dreck is on disc now?" He propped his feet on the coffee table and snagged a bowl of popcorn.

"Hey, it's got Pia Zadora in it," House said. Gene nodded his head.

"Exactly," he said. He and House solemnly saluted each other with their beers. Gene noted House's gaze didn't slide away; it stayed steady, a silent apology in his bright blue eyes. Gene dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement and knocked back some Yuengling. It tasted like heaven after a day filled with bitter coffee and greasy fast food.

"She's all of SIX YEARS OLD," Sarah said with considerable sarcasm. "Way to go, guys."

"Yeah, you perverts," Wilson said, and almost lost the popcorn as House pushed his legs off the coffee table.

For the next hour and a half the comments flew as beer and snacks were consumed in prodigious amounts. As usual Sarah fell asleep halfway through, her head on his shoulder. Gene was tired as well, but he enjoyed this ritual too much to give it up for a little extra rest. Besides, he could sleep in. Sarah rarely did, she liked to be up early to do stockings and make cinnamon rolls for breakfast, but she would catnap later in the day and he would make sure she rested on the weekend.

Once the movie was over he switched to satellite and tossed the remote to House. "Newbie's privilege," he said, "No porn, but anything else is fine."

House thumbed through the channels and settled on an episode of World's Dumbest, the holiday edition. Gene finished off his beer and listened to House and Wilson trading snark, enjoying the male mindset behind the comments. With his schedule it was a rare evening when he got the chance to hang out with guys. He'd hoped to have an evening with his brothers in Kansas earlier in the week, but it hadn't been possible. This was the next best thing and he was going to enjoy it while he could.

Wilson was the first to leave. "Okay, I'm done," he said, rising to stand a bit unsteadily. "'night."

They watched him make his way upstairs. Silence fell, punctuated only by the muted sounds of special effects violence from the television.

"Sarah talked with me this afternoon," House said at last. Gene looked at him in surprise. He didn't think the man volunteered personal information very often.

"So you know about the offer," he said. "What do you plan to do?"

"I'd like to stay. But only if you're not going to beat me to a pulp every time my shrink and I have difficulties." There was a touch of defiance in the statement, but it was obviously sincere.

"I won't." Gene eased his arm around Sarah. She stirred a bit and snuggled into him, seeking warmth. "When I was a kid my old man smacked my mom around on a regular basis," he said softly, keeping his voice low. "There was nothing I could do about it for years. When someone causes my wife trouble or pain I have a hard time being reasonable."

House looked away. "Ah." He fidgeted. "I didn't want her fired. That was . . . unexpected."

"I could have told you the old farts at Mayfield have no sense of humor," Gene said dryly.

House snorted. "Bastards." He rubbed his thigh with an absent gesture. "I . . . I really want to work with her."

"Then do it and don't fuck around," Gene said. He gently set Sarah aside and got to his feet, then gathered her up in his arms. She stirred and yawned.

"I c'n walk," she mumbled, and lay her cheek to his shoulder. Gene nodded at House.

"Good night," he said. "Bank the fire down before you go, if you would. See you later this morning." He turned away and headed off to bed, leaving his guest to the quiet darkness of the empty living room.


	9. Chapter 9

_December 25__th__, Christmas morning _

_6 a.m._

Sarah crept down the stairs. She glanced at House's bedroom door as she passed by, but there was no sign of life. Undoubtedly the guys would sleep in, and that would give her plenty of time to get things ready for later on.

She took the sweet dough she'd made the night before out of the fridge and set up the bread board, put on her apron and tied back her hair. She floured the board and began to roll out the dough, the sound of the rolling pin a steady rhythm accompanying her thoughts.

She loved this time of day, the hours before dawn when the house was hers and the peace of deep night was still settled in all the rooms. The silence was soothing and eased her heart in a way she could never describe. It was as essential to her daily routine as water or air was necessary to her body's survival. When her chores were done and the sun was rising she would go for a walk and complete her meditation.

She brushed the dough with milk and spread cinnamon filling over it, rolled it carefully and cut thick slices, lay them in the greased baking dish and covered them with a damp teatowel to rise. Now she had time to get the stockings ready.

_Forty years old and I still love doing this_, she thought as she brought out the boxes full of goodies she had purchased over the course of her travels the last few months. Finding the right odds and ends had been the hardest part, but with that problem solved she only had to get the stockings filled and hung up on the mantelpiece.

She was ready to hang up the last stocking when she heard Greg's door open. In a panic Sarah ducked down behind the couch. She held her breath as he passed by, obviously intent on reaching the bathroom. His footsteps slowed, then stopped. She waited, willing him to keep going.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Sarah looked up. House loomed over her, frowning. She said the first thing that came into her head.

"Go pee. Then head straight back to bed, or Santa won't leave you anything nice." She paused. "Don't forget to wash your hands when you're done."

He stared at her for a long moment. Without another word he turned away and left the room. Sarah let out a breath and stood up. Feeling like a complete idiot, she took the stocking to the fireplace and hung it carefully on the last hook, then went into the kitchen.

She had her back to the bathroom when House emerged. Sarah set the oven to heat; a blush crept into her cheeks as he passed by. At the doorway he paused.

"Thanks for the advice, _Mom_," he said, but under the sarcasm there was a hint of humor in his sleep-roughened voice. Then he was gone.

After the second batch was set to rise she made herself a cup of tea, sat down and put her feet up. The first faint grey light of dawn showed outside and revealed it was snowing hard; she would have to take her walk later. Sarah watched the flakes swirl past the glass and thought of her conversation with House the day before.

She wasn't really quite sure how to proceed or what would happen, despite her show of confidence with him. Moving away from the classic therapeutic model was worrisome; this was territory she had never explored before. And yet somehow she knew this was the correct approach to take. He behaved very much like the abused horses she had worked with now and then over the years, locked into his fears by ingrained distrust and lashing out at anyone within reach as a consequence.

This was going to be a difficult task, one of the hardest she'd ever chosen, she knew it going in. Still, she relished the chance to try a different model of analysis, even as she hoped to offer trust and compassion to a wounded spirit.

_What happens to a sensitive, intelligent and deeply empathic child when he is given to parents who have no idea how to deal with his gifts? _She sipped her tea. _He learns to create layers of protection. The problem is, that protection becomes a prison. Even when he no longer needs it, it's a survival tool he's used to stay alive, and now he's afraid to set it aside._

The timer on her watch beeped; the first batch of rolls was done. Sarah stood and stretched, glanced out the window at the falling snow. _If you want a horse to follow you, walk away, _she thought, and smiled a little. The situation would guide her actions, along with experience and a pinch of intuition; it would work, though probably not in the way she thought it would or should. _But that doesn't matter, _she thought as she took the browned and fragrant rolls from the oven. _The important part will be the healing. That's all that really counts._


	10. Chapter 10

(A/N: here's one more chapter, and then I think that's it for a day or so, I need to put my feet up and enjoy watching the Yule Log on a local station! As some of you might have guessed, I posted these chapters in real time--for the East Coast at least--so even as you are reading, the events in the chapter are happening somewhere in a fictional upstate New York. Hope everyone who celebrates Christmas has a merry and peaceful holiday, and Santa brought you lots of goodies! --B)

_December 25__th__, Christmas morning_

_10 a.m._

Greg lies in his warm haven of a bed, listening to the sounds of the house stirring to life. He's been awake on and off since his encounter with Sarah earlier that morning. Finding her crouched behind the sofa with a bulging stocking clutched in her hand had amused him at first, but now it's a reminder that the one ritual he hates most about Christmas is about to be forced on him, and he wants no part of it.

It isn't like he didn't bring gifts. Wilson bought and wrapped them of course, but the tags have Greg's name on them and that's all that matters anyway. _Stupid waste of time, _he thinks, and huddles deeper under the comforter. But he cannot hide from memories of childhood Christmases when the only gifts under the tree came from his mother, even though Dad's name was on the tag too. Or the years when his father mocked the homemade presents Greg had been coerced into offering him. That was the start of the 'you're such a sissy' era, when any artistic ability was evidence of his abnormality, his inability to be the tough, macho boy his dad really wanted. _He made sure I found them in the trash later._ The sting of that rejection still hurts despite the passage of years.

For ages now he's managed to avoid giving and receiving presents, turning it into a game, a method of finding out what people really want from him. Because he knows full well, this ridiculous tradition was never about offering something to someone free of charge. There's always a price to pay, some string attached, and he hates owing anyone anything.

The sounds outside his door grow louder, and now the fragrance of coffee is slowly seeping into the room, making his stomach growl. On a sigh he sits up and scrubs a hand over his face. Might as well get this over with.

When he emerges from his sanctuary it's to find everyone congregated in the kitchen eating breakfast. The kitchen radio is on, but it's not holiday music, it's the regional NPR station. A big pan of cinnamon rolls sits waiting to be consumed, accompanied by a pot of coffee, plates, mugs and utensils. Greg gets some joe and sits down at the far end of the table, away from the others. He watches them as they talk and laugh and munch rolls. He feels isolated, on edge, irritable.

"May I touch you?" Sarah is standing next to him—where did she come from? He hadn't noticed her entering his personal space. Her soft voice eases some of the anxiety. Without speaking he nods, turning his head away. Her hand rests on his shoulder, light and gentle.

"It's okay if you don't want to open presents with everyone watching," she says softly. "I can put yours by your door and you can check them out in private whenever you like."

After a few moments he nods again, grateful for her understanding but unwilling to show it.

"We have one other tradition besides the movie," Sarah says. "On Christmas night we invite the neighbors in for a buffet dinner. Everyone has to wear an ugly holiday sweater. If you would like to join the party, you'd be more than welcome. If not, that's fine too."

"I don't have anything like that with me," he says after a time. Sarah laughs softly.

"You will when you open your gifts," she says. Her small hand rubs his shoulder, a slow, comforting gesture. "How about a roll to go with the coffee?"

Later on, when the others are gathered in the living room exchanging presents, he collects the small pile of gifts and the stocking sitting by his bedroom door and takes them in with him, along with a couple of rolls he stole from the pan when no one was looking.

The first package is soft and flexible. It proves to be the sweater Sarah mentioned. Santa, dressed a in fire-engine red suit, riding in a lime green sleigh, and nine reindeer (including Rudolf) with enormous ornament-laden antlers fly over a snowy housetop, complete with twinkling LED lights. Sequin stars glitter all over the damn thing, and Rudolf's nose blinks. It is truly hideous. A smile slowly turns up the corners of Greg's mouth. He sets the sweater aside and opens another present, this one from Sarah. It is a runner's watch, the latest model with digital readouts on heartbeat, oxygen saturation levels and other delights. He understands immediately what it means. She believes he will have the surgery and it will be successful. It doesn't matter that he still won't be able to run; she is saying she is certain he will eventually be pain-free. He looks down at the watch for a long time, cradling it in his hands. Then he slips it on his wrist and fastens the band.

The next gift is from Gene. It's a vintage GameBoy. He powers it up, his smile widening to a grin as the first level of Crash Test Dummies appears. He plays for a few minutes, chuckling as he remembers the tricks and cheats for each section of the game.

The last gift is from Wilson. He's not sure what to expect—a silk tie or the latest cologne, something really frou-frou. Instead it's a tee shirt, a little faded and worn but still wearable—an all-blues concert held in Memphis some years back, with big names and small listed on the roster. He's been lusting after this one on Ebay for ages.

"So you're the one who outbid me," he says softly. "This cost you four hundred bucks. Better you than me."

He's wearing the new tee when he takes the first handful of goodies out of his stocking. Chocolate of course—handfuls of Baci and Mozartkugeln, Godiva truffles and cherry brandy cordials; a new Cross pen, black barrel with silver fittings, very elegant and perfectly weighted for his hand; a book of temporary tatts, buttons with sarcastic quips on them, some flash drives with music mixes and mashups for his laptop, polished pieces of snowflake obsidian and sodalite, a bag of Boston Red Hots, an enormous chocolate orange, hand-held puzzles and black-belt Sudoku books and a primer on how to pick up girls (with the worst advice he's ever read), a little NOAA weather radio and a pack of colored pencils tied to a leather-bound sketchbook. He munches a roll and some chocolate as he sifts through all this swag, secretly delighted.

After a while he scoops everything up and puts it carefully into the box the tee shirt came in, sets it on the floor, then settles the comforter over him. He pulls the book on storm chasing off the stack on his nightstand, takes a bite of cinnamon roll and starts to read, aware of talk and laughter drifting in from the living room. Maybe later he'll go out and show off his riches. For now he's content to be right where he is.


	11. Chapter 11

(A/N: this is the last chapter I have finished. It'll be a few days before the next one is posted, because I'm waiting to find out which direction the story is going. As always, your reviews are more than welcome--thanks for reading too :) --B)

_December 25__th_

_11:30 p.m._

Sarah finished off her final ginger beer of the evening and rubbed tired eyes. She really should have been in bed an hour ago, but winding down was proving difficult. She watched the fireplace embers ripple and glow and thought about the evening's events.

The get-together had gone well, as usual. Everyone down the lane had attended, also as usual: Rick and Tony (known locally as the Hutch brothers, a contraction of their last name, Hutchinson), Bill and Dot, Allen and Debbie, Kris, David and Cal. The annual Rook tournament had been set up at the kitchen table while everyone else piled into the living room to play music, drink beer, eat fattening goodies and share town gossip. Gene had revealed his new ugly sweater, purchased in Kansas: bright scarlet with enormous stylized white, hot pink and orange snowflakes scattered all over it. Wilson had predicted burned retinas for the entire group. Everyone voted it second best in show, House having won first prize—a box of kirsch- filled chocolate Santas handmade by Dot, a much-desired specialty in the village.

Much to her delighted surprise, House had joined the pickup session. Granted, he stayed on the fringes for much of the evening and barely talked to anyone; still, he'd participated to the point of even turning on his sweater's LED lights. Everyone had treated him with the calm, non-intrusive friendliness Sarah had come to expect from the people here.

By degrees she watched House relax, his wariness retreating a bit as he was included without being required to respond. Wilson had kept an eye on him too, flirting with Kris as a cover. Kris had accepted it with good grace; she and Wilson always made passes at each other and traded outrageous remarks, it was a game they'd played since meeting several years ago at the first ugly sweater party. House had certainly noticed; he'd observed them without being obvious about it, his keen gaze taking in every gesture and smile. He'd said nothing however, no snark or sarcasm. Undoubtedly he would pry any further information out of Wilson on the way home tomorrow.

So it had all gone very well . . . until the phone call. She'd known it was coming, had been anticipating it for some time, but it still took her by surprise all the same.

She'd slipped into the mudroom with the cordless, shivering a little in the cold, unwilling to call attention to herself by going upstairs. In silence she'd listened to the rambling voice on the other end, wincing as it rose in volume, demanding an answer from her.

"No," she said at last. "You know I won't."

Five long minutes later, the caller flung a last incoherent curse at her and hung up. She stood staring down at the phone in her hand. Only when the disconnect screech brought her back to the present did she look up to find House standing in the doorway, watching her. He said nothing, only turned away. She clicked the phone off and followed him, almost chilled through and numb. By the time she had reached the living room she'd pulled herself together enough to prevent unwelcome questions. Gene had known, though. Within moments he was by her side, his arm sliding about her waist as he brought her close. For once she allowed herself to take some strength from his protectiveness, remembering their recent fight.

Now here she was, ignoring the hours of good company and fun everyone had enjoyed, focused on the brief call that had shattered her composure and left her sick inside. _You'd think I'd be able to shake it off by now_, she thought. _You'd think I'd take my own advice and let this go. _But the pain wouldn't leave. It stayed lodged deep in her heart like a barbed arrowhead, meant to cause damage no matter what course of action or inaction she chose. Sarah pressed her forehead to her knees and closed her eyes.

_December 26__th_

_12 a.m._

Some time after everyone has gone home Greg finds Sarah in the living room, curled up on the couch. In the dying light of the fire it is possible to see she is still awake. She doesn't look at him when he perches on the arm of the chair next to her and stretches his aching leg.

"Who was it?" he asks quietly, though he already has a pretty good idea.

"My mother," she says. There is a wealth of pain in that simple statement.

"The woman hasn't completely fried her brain?" He twiddles his cane between his fingers. "Impressive. Either that's due to excellent genetics or really watered down dope."

"It's not from lack of trying." Sarah lifts her head and tips it back to rest on the couch. She's hugging her knees, folded in tight on herself.

"Let me guess. She wants you to play ATM."

"I'm sure if Gene gave her a box of fentanyl patches she'd be just as happy." Somehow there is no bitterness in Sarah's voice. "They're worth a lot on the black market. She'd sell a few of them, no doubt. Enough to get a couple days worth of solid high." She sighs softly. "I don't give her money for obvious reasons."

"You haven't pushed to get her into rehab?" He watches her closely.

She shakes her head. "I tried a few times, but she made it clear she wasn't interested. Sobriety was never high on her list of priorities anyway."

"She's a total loser," he says. "Why don't you just say the hell with it and walk away?"

"She's my mom," Sarah says at last.

"So what?" he says. "She's not worth it. Biology doesn't mean jack."

"I have to give her the chance to change."

"You just said she doesn't want to change. She made your life miserable," he says, angry with her now. "She was supposed to take care of you and she didn't. She's a selfish asshole who deserves to die alone."

"I'm well aware of what she didn't do for any of her children." Sarah sounds tired. "But there's always the chance that someday she'll be sober for real."

"Yeah, and what if that fairy tale does come true?" he snaps. "You're going to welcome her with open arms, all is forgiven, you get the mom you always wanted?"

"She'll never be the mom I wanted," Sarah says quietly. "I stopped wishing for that a long time ago. But if she asked for forgiveness, there would still be a place for her at my table."

"You're letting her break your heart," he says eventually, astounded at her willful idiocy. "She'll never do anything else."

"I know." The bleakness in her soft voice reveals the depth of her comprehension. He waits for her to say more, but she is silent. After a moment he leaves the room, unable to bear watching her grieve a moment longer.


	12. Chapter 12

_**(A/N: I do not make money from writing fic about House or own any characters except my OCs. still owns the rights to the lyrics for 'Shelter From the Storm'. House's thought about logic and reason was inspired by a line from Diane Duane's excellent book, Spock's World. If you haven't read it, you should. –B)**_

_I've heard newborn babies wailing like a mourning dove,_

_and old men with broken teeth, stranded without love._

_Do I understand your question man, it is hopeless and forlorn . . . _

"_Come in," she said, "I'll give you_

_shelter from the storm."_

_December 27__th_

_2 p.m._

"So you're really going to stay at the farm?"

They are on the way back to New Jersey. The roads are clear, the sun already beginning to settle toward the horizon as the short winter afternoon winds down. Wilson's question interrupts the thoughts that have been chasing themselves in Greg's mind like squirrels around a tree trunk.

"No, it's all some gigantic plot to fake everyone out," he says, and turns his head to look out the window.

"Right." Wilson changes lanes to pass a double semi kicking up a slurry of road salt and grime. "Are you sure about this? There's probably not much to do up there during the winter. You know your boredom threshold is lower than most people's."

Greg snorts. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. Just another way of showing we're BFFs."

"I didn't mean it that way," Wilson says in protest. "I just want to know if you've thought this through. It's a big commitment."

"So now I'm incapable of understanding the consequences of my own actions." Greg rubs his aching thigh. "Do you enjoy deflating confidence or is this just one of your many duties as a duly authorized agent of Satan?"

"I don't want to see you or Sarah get hurt." Wilson sighs. "Okay, that didn't come out right either."

"Maybe if you stop trying to put a spin on --"

"I don't think you're ready for this." Wilson sounds defensive. "I think you're just—just running away again."

Greg winces inwardly. "Not," he says out loud.

"Convince me."

The sarcasm in the reply annoys him. "Fuck off!"

"The only reason I'm asking—" Wilson stops. "I care about both you and Sarah. That's all."

Greg rolls his eyes. "The implication being I'm going to . . . ?"

"You've both been hurt enough." The interruption is one step short of anger.

"You still love her," Greg says.

"Not romantically, but yes, I do care about her. She's one of the best friends I've ever had," Wilson says quietly. "She was also smart enough to refuse when I asked her to marry me."

Greg slews around in his seat to stare at Wilson. "_Whoa_."

"Yeah." There is a half-smile on the other man's face, but there's no humor in it.

"She wouldn't talk about what went down in college. So to speak," Greg says, still absorbing this interesting bit of information.

"I asked her, she said no. We had a . . . heated discussion. She told me some things . . ." Wilson falls silent a moment. "She has a tendency to give people total truthfulness when she's angry or upset, whether they're ready for it or not. That's what has me worried."

"You think I can't handle the truth?" Greg gives it his best Jack Nicholson imitation, which is actually not that good.

"I think if you feel like you're cornered, you'll do something stupid." Wilson grips the wheel, his knuckles white. "There's plenty of evidence to prove my point."

"So that means I should open the door and jump out? Because I'm feeling pretty cornered at the moment," Greg says.

"All I'm saying is, think carefully about what you're doing," Wilson says. "I know you want the surgery and you need Sarah's approval before you get it. Just—consider your methods. You might end up hurting someone again who is genuinely trying to help."

"As opposed to someone smacking another someone around with shitty advice," Greg snaps. "Why don't you stop now while you're way behind and totally clueless?"

The rest of the ride is conducted in a tense silence. Greg doesn't care; he closes his eyes and tries to will away the pain. He can feel Princeton creeping closer with each mile; now that he's made the choice to leave, he doesn't want to go back, even to pick up his things. He wants out—away from the endless loop of expectations, assumptions, demands. He knows the craving for numbness is waiting, prying at the edges of his mind, hovering over every action. If he doesn't break this chain for good, he'll never be free.

When they arrive at Wilson's place he calls Sarah. It isn't his idea; she requested it before they left. Now she's asking him, "Second thoughts?"

"Nope." He tosses his overnight bag on the sofa and goes into the kitchen in search of a cold beer.

"Wilson give you a hard time?"

"Yup." He grabs a Flying Fish India Pale Ale and pops the top on the doorway molding, something he knows Wilson hates because it scars the finish.

"Thought so," she says. "Try not to be too hard on him, it's nice to have someone who cares enough to nag you to death." The word 'nag' comes out in two soft quick syllables: _nay-yag_. Somehow he finds that little trace of twang reassuring.

"Say that a few million times and _you_ might start to believe it. I won't," he mutters, and she chuckles softly.

"Get some dinner and pop some pain meds, you're hurting. Didn't you ask to stop halfway?"

"Is there a point to this conversation?" He takes a huge swallow of beer.

"Yeah actually, there is. I have a favor to ask." There's a rattling sound in the background—a drawer opening. Greg knows she's in the kitchen, making dinner. He wonders what it'll be. He and Wilson will be doing Indian takeout from Patel's, his vindaloo and pakora tank is way low. "You remember the project I showed you this morning?"

"Since my I.Q. hasn't dropped a hundred points since then, _yeah_," he says with considerable sarcasm.

"Just making sure you were paying attention when we talked," she says. "I'd like you to help me with it."

He is a bit taken aback. "You didn't say anything earlier," he says at last.

"I wanted to see your reaction first," Sarah says. "If you weren't interested I'd work on it myself. You want in?"

"What do I get out of it?" he asks.

"Fifty-fifty split. We share the result."

He's already made up his mind to take it but decides to make her wait. "I'll tell you when we come up this weekend."

"Fair enough." Sarah sounds cheerful, confirming his suspicions.

"You really think you'll get me to spill my guts, working together? Pretty lame." He takes another swallow.

"I need some help. You need something to do. If you wanna talk, you talk," she says. He hears the oven door open. "That's the top and bottom of my sinister plan, mwahaha."

"It won't work," he says.

"How about trying it first before you give up, Eeyore? Dinner's ready, I have to go." She's smiling, he knows it. "Give my love to Jim." And she's gone.

Later that night, as he lies in the shrine attempting to find some sleep, he wonders (not for the first time) if any of this will make a difference. Maybe he really is just running from one place to another, trying to escape whatever chases him. Maybe he will hurt Sarah again, though he doesn't want to. Maybe this is a gigantic mistake and he'll never return to medicine. That final thought should terrify him. All it does is leave him empty. And that is the worst realization of all. The cool, bright corridors of logic and reason, the only home he's ever really cared about, have been denied him. There is nothing left but to breach the barricades that keep him standing in icy darkness. It's a flawed plan filled with pitfalls and pain, but it's the best one he's got, and he has to make it work. _I choose to make it work_, he thinks, and hopes that will be sufficient.


	13. Chapter 13

_December 29__th_

_12:30 p.m._

Even during the holidays, certain mundane rituals must be observed. Cuddy's lunch date with Wilson was an excellent example. Tuesday afternoon found them actually going out to a restaurant instead of the hospital cafeteria in celebration of the coming New Year and, Cuddy suspected, to prevent anyone on the staff overhearing their conversation. Well into the first course and general pleasantries having been exchanged, they moved on to the real reason why they were there: to gossip, mainly about House.

"So, how's he doing?" Cuddy half-dreaded the answer. She stirred her soup and sprinkled a bit of grated parmesan into it.

"My Christmas was great, thanks for asking," Wilson said, giving her an amused look. Cuddy regarded him wryly.

"You both spent the weekend at Doctor Goldman's place in New York, didn't you?" She sipped a spoonful of minestrone, more from a desire to do something than from any real need to eat.

"Yes." Wilson seasoned his salad. "House is . . . House. You know how he is about holidays."

"I'm asking about the bigger picture," Cuddy said. "Is he any closer to getting his license back?"

"As of this moment . . . no," Wilson said with some reluctance. "Not really."

Cuddy's reply was forestalled by the return of their server, offering fresh coffee. When they were alone once more she spoke. "It's been seven months. At the last fiscal review I couldn't justify keeping Diagnostics in the budget, even minimally, if there wasn't some hope that the head of the department would be able to return soon." She sighed a little. "I've already farmed out those of the team who stayed on, in case we're able to put everything together again. That's the best I can do."

"Then you've done all you can," Wilson said. "House is trying to get some help. Maybe this time he'll find some. Sarah's willing to give him every chance."

"He got her fired and she's still working with him?" Cuddy said, incredulous. "Is she trying for sainthood or something?"

"Let's just say no one has out-stubborned Doctor Goldman in a very long time, if ever," Wilson said, a smile tugging at his mouth. "She's more than equal to the task."

"Better her than me," Cuddy said, but Wilson apparently sensed the disquiet in her reply. He didn't push however, only said

"So how are things with you and Lucas?"

"You say that like you're hoping we've broken up. It's only been a month since he moved in," Cuddy said, and regretted her sharp tone when Wilson looked wounded.

"Hey, I was just attempting to be polite."

She set the soup aside. "Thus proving my observation is accurate. You're never polite unless you have something to hide." She hesitated, then went on. "Have you said anything to House about us?"

Wilson's dark eyes widened. "Of course not! Are you nuts?" He watched her closely. "You didn't answer my question."

Cuddy felt a blush heat her cheeks. "We're fine."

"Uh huh." Wilson sounded skeptical but didn't pursue the subject. Any further conversation was forestalled by the return of their server with the entrees.

"We _are_," Cuddy said after the waitress left. She picked at her chicken salad. "Lucas is wonderful with Rachel, and she really likes him."

"How about you?" Wilson's voice was gentle.

"We're fine," she said again. "I know you don't really like him, but he's a good ki—man," she amended with some haste. "He treats me with respect. We're happy together."

"What are you going to do when House finds out?" Wilson took a bite of baked salmon.

"You mean, am I ready to batten down the hatches and prepare for battle?" Cuddy shook her head. "It doesn't have to come to that."

"But it will." Wilson gave her a sympathetic look. "This is _House_ we're talking about, Lisa. He may not claim you for himself, but he'll make damn sure no one else gets you."

Cuddy swallowed on a dry throat. She hadn't allowed that particular truth to bother her too much, since the source of the problem was far away. Now Wilson had brought it home, literally.

"How the hell did I get this high honor?" She propped her forehead on her fist and looked down at her plate, too anxious to even pretend to eat.

"You didn't exactly discourage him," Wilson said dryly. "All those years of tight skirts, pushup bras and flirting took their toll."

"It's not _completely _my fault! He's obsessive by nature," Cuddy said. "Anyway, this doesn't have anything to do with me personally. I'm just part of some . . . some fantasy he's got playing in his head. The love of a good woman, blah blah."

"You're right about the obsessive part, but you're totally wrong about this not being personal." Wilson sipped his Pellegrino. "It's as personal as it gets."

Cuddy paused. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" she said.

"I know how to read the signs with him. He does love you. The fact that he's a neurotic narcissist with enough addictions to fill a halfway house is beside the point," Wilson said, smiling a little.

"Oh, _god_," Cuddy groaned. "He'll find out and kill Lucas."

Wilson shook his head. "No, he'll try to break you up." He hesitated. "Are you sure you don't want him to?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Cuddy glared at him.

"I think you're still . . ." Wilson paused again, "interested."

"I am _not_! I'm done with him! Enough is enough!" She fought to keep her voice down. "Whatever it is that passes for love in that warped head of his, he's made it very clear he doesn't want any kind of—of settled relationship with me. He left me behind in college, for god's sake!" She still felt the pain of that rejection deep within though she'd never told anyone, not even Wilson. "But it was this last round of craziness with the Ehlers-Danlos girl that opened my eyes to how things are—how impossible . . ." Her voice trailed off for a moment. Then she gathered her thoughts. "So I—walked away."

"Um . . . _yeah_," Wilson said, clearly unconvinced. "And yet you're still trying to find a way to keep him on as head of Diagnostics."

"That's different." Even to her ears she didn't sound convincing. "He's a valuable employee."

"One who's cost the hospital enormous amounts of money time and again in lawsuits, damages and general chaos," Wilson pointed out with annoying truthfulness. "You'd never do this for anyone else."

"I'd do it for you," she said, forcing a smile.

"You say that knowing full well I'm a good risk," Wilson said. "If you're really trying to convince yourself you're done with him, you need to find a better argument before he comes back and starts wreaking havoc."

Later, in between phone calls, masses of paperwork and visits from prospective donors, she considered Wilson's words. Protest as she might, she knew he was right on all points.

_I let Lucas into my life because I'm genuinely attracted to him, but also because he knows how to deal with House,_ she thought. _Am I a selfish cow for thinking of my own protection first? _She sighed and rubbed her forehead. _Probably. But I have to do what I can . . . People depend on me. Rachel's at the top of that list. The hospital's second. _On the heels of her last thought she realized that Lucas didn't even rate a consideration. She slammed her palm down on the desktop in frustration. When the hell was she going to push House out of her heart once and for all? How much more evidence did she need that he'd already done the same himself years ago?

"Doctor Cuddy?" Her assistant hovered in the doorway. "The Moyers are here. You did say you could see them . . .?"

Cuddy straightened, setting her anger aside. "Send them in," she said, her tone brisk. As the door opened she stood and assumed a welcoming smile. _I'll worry about all this later, _she thought, and went about the everyday business of keeping her hospital solvent.


	14. Chapter 14

_**(A/N: In the first season of the series IIRC, it is implied that House's birthday is set somewhere a week or two after Christmas. That makes sense to me as Greg House is a classic Capricorn, rotten childhood, limp and all. Yes, I know we've seen House wearing a hospital ID bracelet with his birthdate listed as 6/11/59. I'm of the strong opinion that it was an in-joke, as that date is Hugh Laurie's actual birthday. So—I've given House a late December birthday because it feels right for the character in my humble opinion, and anyway I can do it cuz it's my story. So there. **_

_**You can find the recipe for chocolate macaroon cake at the King Arthur Flour site. –B)**_

_December 31__st_

_4 p.m._

Winter's early darkness has fallen by the time they are driving up the lane to the farm. Greg watches the house draw closer and feels an odd sense of something like pleasure and anticipation, all mixed up together. He's not really sure where this feeling comes from and he doesn't want to examine it too closely anyway, so he does his best to ignore it.

Sarah opens the door as they pull up to the front step, golden porchlight spilling out all around her.

"Excellent, you made it ahead of the storm!" she says as they come up the walk. She takes the bags from Wilson's hands and gives him a quick hug while she offers Greg a warm smile. "We'll bring in the rest of this later. Supper's ready, you two must be famished."

The kitchen is fragrant with the smell of baking pizza. There are also two cakes sitting on the dining room table, both luscious-looking confections. House stares first at them, then in sudden and unwelcome comprehension at Sarah.

"Yes, I know it's your birthday," she says, smiling. "Come on, son. Can't pass up an officially sanctioned chance to eat cake."

He does not want this. He hasn't celebrated or even acknowledged his birthday in years. He loathes the whole party hat/blowing out candles/song-singing/falsely joyous ritual that everyone insists on. He refuses to act happy about a custom that only reminds him of a year spent in pain.

"Hey," Sarah says softly. He snaps out of what feels like burgeoning panic to find her watching him, her expression serious now. "It's just dessert. No little hats or candles. We won't even sing the song, promise." There is quiet understanding in her gaze. He looks away, embarrassed by his reaction.

After a few minutes of amiable confusion they settle in around the table with pizza and cold Yuengling, the kitchen radio tuned to a classic rock station.

"I can't take credit for making this," Sarah says when Wilson compliments her on the pizza. "I splurged and bought them from Lou's. You know, the little Italian place in town where everyone goes after games." She sips her ginger beer.

"Who baked the cakes?" Greg asks. She smiles at him.

"Now those I can claim, for better or worse. I wasn't sure what kind you liked, so I made chocolate macaroon and my grandma's red velvet cake."

"I haven't ever heard of either one." Wilson gives her a puzzled look. She rolls her eyes.

"Yankees. Y'all don't know good eats."

"I know what red velvet is," Greg says. He has a hazy memory of being given a slice at someone's home in Texas—probably Fort Hood, though he can't be sure. He couldn't have been more than three or four years old at the time. "It has buttermilk in it." The tangy-sweet taste comes back to him in a vague sort of way.

"Yes indeed." Sarah's eyes gleam with amusement. "To be honest I made that one for Gene too, it's a favorite of his. If you don't like either cake we can skip 'em, it's all good." She stretches a little, obviously unconcerned about his decision. "I bought some other stuff for New Year's, so if we don't have a treat now we'll have something later on. There's a Thin Man marathon on TCM, if you're interested."

That clenching feeling in Greg's gut slowly eases. She's really not going to make a big deal out of his birthday. He finishes his beer and reaches for another slice of pizza.

"Where is Gene?" Wilson asks. "Doesn't the man ever take a day off?"

"He's upstairs crashed out," Sarah says. "He spent the whole night in Detroit waiting for a flight to open up. He'll be down later, more than likely."

Greg watches her out of the corner of his eye. There is no trace of the anguished, grieving woman he left a few days previous. She looks as if she hasn't a care in the world. And yet he doesn't sense that she's in denial or trying to hide her feelings. Her body language is open, her gaze untroubled, her speech sparked with the humor he's come to expect from her. He wonders how she lives with what she knows, the burden of her past and all the nightmares it must spawn in the small hours of the night and at odd moments. Some part of him wants to ask her how she does it. Instead he takes a huge bite of pizza and tunes back into the conversation.

" --staying?" Sarah is saying. Wilson puts down his beer.

"Just till Saturday. I have a patient . . ." He falls silent.

"He's got an old guy who's hanging on by his fingernails," Greg says around a mouthful of pepperoni, mushrooms, green peppers, onions, extra cheese, extra sauce and hand-tossed dough. "So of course Wilson has to be there when the idiot kicks the bucket."

"Why do you always imply I'm a wack job for caring about my patients?" Wilson snaps. "This man needs me--"

"He's _dead_," Greg says, chewing noisily.

"He's still breathing, so he's still my concern." Wilson sets down his beer. He glares at Greg. "Don't—don't push, okay? Just don't."

"The fact that his body hasn't caught on yet that he's joined the choir invisible isn't your problem."

"Stop," Sarah says quietly. They both ignore her.

"Just because you never show up for your patients doesn't make you a role model for anyone except other antisocial jerks," Wilson says hotly.

Greg rolls his eyes. "You really think that your presence will prevent that old fart's suffering? He's so gorked on morphine he doesn't even—"

"I'm going to be there whether you approve—"

"It's nothing but Jewish guilt for not creating a miracle—"

"_ENOUGH_." Sarah's voice shocks them both into silence. It is not loud but it fills the room all the same. "This subject is now closed, do I make myself clear?"

"It's a free country," Wilson says under his breath.

"Not in my kitchen it isn't." She folds her arms. "You want to carry on, go outside. Grab some firewood and slug each other's brains out while you're at it. There is no fighting or arguing or even teensy little attempts to bicker at my table. EVER. Understood?"

"Jeez, _Mom_," Greg says. Wilson nods once and won't look at either of them.

"Good," Sarah says. She gets up to take her empty bottle and plate to the sink. "Holy crow, you guys. Ever consider marriage counseling?" She shakes her head as she rinses out the bottle. "Chuckleheads."

"I am not a chucklehead," Wilson says with some dignity. "Never was, never will be."

"That's because you're really a wanker," Greg mutters.

"Asshat," Wilson throws at him.

"Doormat!"

"Dickwad!"

Sarah spins around. She has a damp teatowel in her hands. She is twisting it into a long rope. Without a word she pops Wilson on the ass. Even as Greg bursts out laughing she gets him too. She is really good at towel snaps—it _hurts_.

"Knock it off!" She's not kidding. Greg dares to give Wilson a sidelong look. Sarah nails him again.

"Hey!" He rubs his tingling backside, annoyance struggling with amusement for dominance. "Guy already in pain here! What was that for?"

"Instigating. Look it up in the dictionary sometime, your picture's there." She holds the towel at the ready. Greg keeps a wary eye on her. Wilson is doing the same. "Anyone else care to comment?" Sarah asks with deceptive mildness. No one dares to say a word. "Good. Cake is now being served. Both of you sit tight and shut up or we'll have another session with Mister Towel."

Having laid down the law, Sarah pulls a wicked-looking knife out of the utensil drawer. Greg almost bites off his tongue to hold in the smartass remark he wants to give her.

"What kind do you want?" she asks with her back to him, her tone stern.

"Red velvet," he says quickly.

"What about you?" she addresses Wilson.

"Uh—chocolate please," he mutters.

Soon enough she slaps a plate loaded with cake and a fork on the table in front of Greg. He picks up the fork and carves out a bite, takes a cautious taste. The memory of that sweet tang returns full force, backed with the smooth silk of homemade chocolate buttercream frosting. It's absolutely delicious, and the best birthday cake he's ever had—which isn't saying much as he's only been given a few over the years, but still, this one gets top ranking.

"What's in this?" Wilson is asking. "Did you put coconut in the cake too?"

"Nope," Sarah says. "Secret ingredient. Ask Gene when he comes down, he'll tell you what it is."

As Greg is savoring the treat, it strikes him that he never saw his mother stand up the way Sarah just did. He and Dad waged many cruel, hate-filled battles in Mom's presence at the dinner table and anywhere else they chose over the years, including in public. Yet aside from a few ineffective pleas for them to tone things down, his mother hadn't attempted to end those fights.

_Why didn't she put a stop to them? _He knows Dad held his knowledge of her affair over her head, but there had to be more to it than just that. He doesn't remember his mother as a particularly timid or fearful woman; he never had the feeling that she was scared of his father. It was more that she . . . _deferred_ to him. He was the final authority in all matters. Not that there weren't small, hidden moments of rebellion, of silent conspiracy to thwart a particularly nasty punishment, or at least make it less severe; still, Mom didn't help him if she knew for certain she would be exposed. An unwelcome surge of anger fills him.

"What is it?" Sarah's soft voice brings him back to the moment. He looks for Wilson, but finds they are alone in the kitchen.

"Gene came down. They're in the living room setting things up for later." She sits beside him. "Will you tell me what you're thinking?"

To his surprise he hears himself speak. "The way you stood up to us tonight . . . I never realized . . . " He stops. Sarah says nothing, only waits for him to continue.

"Mom never did that," he says. "When Dad disciplined me, when we fought . . . She commiserated sometimes, but only when she wouldn't get in trouble." He winces at how whiny and pathetic that sounds.

"What do you recall?" she asks after a moment. "Can you tell me?"

He doesn't want to remember. There's so much rage and pain, the thought of unleashing it all makes him afraid because he's not sure it'll ever stop once it's allowed freedom. He pushes the memories away and shakes his head.

"Okay," she says. There is that same quiet understanding she showed earlier. "When you're ready, you can talk to me any time about anything." She stands, looking down at him. "I'm headed off to watch movies. Come and join us if you like." And she is gone, slipping through the kitchen doorway in silence. He looks at the half-eaten slice of cake before him. After a moment he takes the plate and fork to the sink, snags a bottle of beer from the fridge, and heads into the living room, where the cheerful sound of talk and laughter mingles with the crackle of the fire.


	15. Chapter 15

_**(A/N: Sarah's remarks about Hammett, Chandler et al are taken with permission from an email conversation with mmgage, a fellow fic writer; they are mainly her comments. I liked them so much I asked to use them. If you haven't discovered her story 'Neighbors' and her new sequel 'Friends' here at FF yet, check them out—they're great reads.**_

_**I do not own House or make money from writing about the series. B. Zimmerman owns the lyrics to 'Shelter From the Storm'. –B)**_

_Well the deputy walks on hard nails, and the preacher rides a mount;_

_but nothing really matters much, it's doom alone that counts,_

_and the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn;_

"_Come in," she said, "I'll give you_

_shelter from the storm."_

When Greg finally goes into the living room it is to find everyone watching the movie. He takes a chair within the circle, but away from the fire so that he is in darkness and the others are illuminated.

"In this particular case I like the films better than the book," Sarah is saying. She is snuggled against Gene on the couch, wrapped up in a thick cotton throw, munching popcorn. "I always had the feeling Hammett didn't like his characters, so I didn't either. Chandler's a better writer."

"Let's see . . . bitter bipolar alcoholic hacking out stories to bring in money," Wilson says. "Of course he hated his characters. They were a means to an end, that's all."

"He wasn't bipolar," Sarah says in exasperation.

"Everyone's bipolar," Wilson says. Gene laughs.

"You've got a point."

"_Anyway _. . ." Sarah throws a popcorn kernel at Wilson. "Powell and Loy have such great chemistry, they make Nick and Nora more likable than Hammett wrote them. And Asta steals every scene he's in."

"Because alcoholics and little yappy dogs are always so entertaining," Wilson says dryly.

"I can remember laughing at you a time or two in college," Sarah says.

"I wasn't an alcoholic!"

"So you were a little yappy dog?" Gene asks, grinning.

"He was both," Sarah teases. Wilson throws the popcorn kernel back at her as Gene laughs.

Greg watches them from the half-darkness. He feels detached, as if he is observing a play. The ghosts of his past are still haunting him; try as he might, he can't push them away. And it is sitting in the shadows of memory that he comprehends Sarah's strategy. It's so simple he can't believe he didn't see it from the start. He should have; it's a sign of how far he's degenerated mentally, letting obvious ploys like this one slip right by him. "I get it," he says aloud.

"What?" Wilson looks at him, his expression one of mild confusion.

"I get it," Greg says again. "Staying here is like living at home, only it's the home I never had. Is that how you're planning to pry me open?"

Sarah sits up a bit, away from Gene. "No prying, otherwise yes," she says. Greg pauses, surprised by her candor.

"It won't work," he says.

"It's already started," she says. "Hasn't it?"

"I don't have to stay here," he says.

"You are always free to leave." Sarah faces him directly now. "I won't keep you against your will. It's your choice."

He stares at her, considering his options. "So this is the best you have to offer," he says after a time.

"Yes," she says. There is no sign of impatience or anger, though she has a right to feel both.

After a few moments he gets up and goes to his room. He has to think about this, and for that he needs some privacy.

He finds his things have been piled by the door: clothes, guitar, piano keyboard, games, laptop, the bag of reference books he thought might come in handy. But there is something else—a small package perched on his duffel, with a card. He limps over, moves everything into the room, and sits down.

He checks out the card first. It's humorous without being insulting or twee and it makes him smile a little. Both Sarah and Gene signed it. The package is next. The paper itself is beautiful, the print copied from illuminated pages--the Book of Kells, he's fairly sure. He admires the intricate patterns and bright colors before opening the box. Within is a rough chunk of stone. He picks it up to examine it. It's surprisingly heavy and appears to be crystalline, with three-sided forms layered in rows throughout. The bottom layer next to the matrix is pale purple and there are hints of green in the translucent top half.

"Fluorite," he says aloud. There is no mistaking the structure. As he starts to put it back he sees a note tucked in the box. He takes out the paper, unfolds it. _When you seek logic and reason, look here _is all it says.

After a few moments he sets the stone aside and opens his duffel. There's a pair of thick socks folded together in a ball, tucked deep in a corner under some tee shirts. He pulls them out and feels for the oblong lump he knows is there. This is the last remnant of his massive Vicodin stash. He stuffed the bottle with cotton to keep the pills from rattling. Wilson did a good job of cleaning out the apartment, but there were hiding places where only a stone addict would think to look, and one of them still held a month's supply. Greg knows it is total idiocy to have this with him; he should give the pills to Sarah and be done with this final piece of his old life. But he also knows pain is coming, so much pain he's not sure he'll survive it. At least with this pitiful handful of pills he's got a fallback plan, something to keep him numb, if only for a few hours. He can't give them up, not yet.

_Not ever_, that little voice deep inside says.

"We'll see," he says aloud, and puts the socks back in his duffel.


	16. epilogue

_**(A/N: this is the end of Shelter From the Storm, but not the end of the story! Look for the sequel, January Thaw, coming soon. Thanks to all my loyal readers, your praise and reviews are much appreciated as always!**_

_**I do not own House or make money from writing fic. B. Zimmerman owns the lyrics to 'Shelter From the Storm'. –B)**_

_Well I'm living in a foreign country, but I'm bound to cross the line._

_Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine._

_If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born . . . _

"_Come in," she said, "I'll give you_

_shelter from the storm."_

_January 1__st__, 2010_

_11 a.m._

Sarah opens the battered wooden door with a flourish. "New year, new project, and here's hoping we get a working office out of it," she says. "So tell me what needs to be done."

Greg peers into the room. It was once a pantry, or a milking parlor, or where they killed the chickens for all he knows. It doesn't look any better now than it did earlier in the week, though the walls have been painted and the floor refinished, both tasks obviously accomplished in warmer weather.

"It's freezing in here," he says.

"We've got a heat source." Sarah points to it, a small black franklin stove sitting atop a brick hearth. "I had Mona's husband check everything when he swept the chimneys in October. He says the stove is fine. He replaced the pipe and repaired the connection in the wall. All we need to do is bring in some kindling and get a fire started, it'll warm up fast enough. I've got an extra ash bucket around somewhere." She glances at him, smiling a little. "What else?"

"We need desks. Can we even fit two in here?" He glares at her. "And chairs. I'm not sharing."

"If we put 'em back to back . . ." Sarah tilts her head, considering. "We could have floor to ceiling shelves up on the north wall and split the space. That would give us more breathing room."

"Electricity," he says. Though he'd never admit it, he's beginning to see the potential. "There are no outlets."

"Yeah, well, I tried to get Rosie set up to do the wiring, but she's working on Emil's barn and that'll take weeks." Sarah shrugs a little. "We can use a power strip for now. We're both on laptops anyway at the moment, so it won't be a problem."

"A woman electrician?" He says it just to get her going.

"Yeah, imagine that," Sarah says dryly. "A female who knows all about wiring houses, amazing. Dancing backwards in high heels isn't enough of an accomplishment, women want more? Unbelievable."

"She's probably three hundred pounds with a bleach-blonde crew cut and tatts on her tits," he says. Sarah snorts with amusement.

"Have to tell her that the next time I see her. So what's next on the list?"

"Where the hell are we going to buy furniture up here in the boondocks? I'm presuming no one in their right mind will deliver to this backwater in winter," he says. "I haven't seen any office supply stores in town either."

"That's the fun part," Sarah says. "We don't have to buy new. We can check out the estate sales at the auction house. They have them every weekend. Just about all the stuff we have here came from the sales. And a few dumpsters here and there. Anything we find we can bring back with Minnie Lou's help."

"You are a total trashpicker," he says, and she laughs. The sweet sound fills the empty room.

"You make that sound like a bad thing!" She folds her arms and tips her head back to look at him. It is a conspirator's gesture, and if he didn't know better he'd say it was carefully calculated to draw him in. "So, you wanna do this?"

It's tempting, even knowing she'll use the project to work on him. He's put together households before, decorated rooms, even done some simple renovation. This is different though. He can't put a finger on why it is, but it is. He wants to do it.

"Yeah," he says. Sarah nods.

"Okay," she says. To his surprise she extends her hand. He looks down at it, confused and wary, and says nothing.

"Oh yeah." She takes her hand back, spits in her palm, then offers it again. "Deal," she says. Greg regards her for a moment. Then he spits in his hand and takes hers. They give a solemn shake.

"Deal," he says. "But I get dibs on the best spot for my desk. And a bottle of rubbing alcohol to get rid of the girl cooties you just gave me."

"Uh _uh_." Sarah regards him with scorn, her sea-green eyes bright with humor. "Everybody knows if you want to get rid of a girl's cooties you burn her favorite doll. That's why I never had any."

"Cooties or dolls?" Greg asks. Sarah rolls her eyes at him.

"All kids have cooties. It's a state law or something."

He swallows a laugh. "So you didn't have dolls. Why, because some nasty little yard ape had a wienie roast with Chatty Cathy and Raggedy Ann as special guests?"

"Because I wanted boys to know they couldn't mess with me. They didn't have any way to get revenge, but I did." She's only half-joking, he can tell.

"Man, you lived in a tough neighborhood," he says, and winces at his faux pas. Even from the toned-down entries in her journal he knows she lived in a house filled with pain, neglect and days of pure terror. Handling the kids on her block was probably every bit as bad as what she dealt with at home.

"No problem," Sarah says. "To get rid of boy cooties you steal the wheels off the guy's bike and hang 'em in a tree. It always looked like Christmastime in our yard with all the ornaments on our windbreak pines." She gives him a smartass grin. "Rest up tonight, we've got work to do starting tomorrow."

"I denounce you, Desecrator of Bicycles!" he yells after her as she heads into the kitchen, and she laughs again in genuine amusement. Once she is gone Greg leans against the doorjamb and gives the room another look. This is going to be a _lot_ of work. He isn't sure he can do much; his ruined leg makes it difficult if not impossible to get up and down without causing spasms, and standing for long periods of time hurts like hell. He can only lift the lightest pieces of furniture, and even then he can't go too far without losing his balance. Still, he wants to do this. It means . . . something, he isn't sure what just yet.

After a moment Greg pulls the door shut and goes off to crash on the couch. Wilson will be back from town shortly to start the living room tailgate party he's been planning as a thank-you gesture to Gene and Sarah. Until then, there's time to find a bit of oblivion and rest up for what lies ahead.


End file.
